


The Rag and Bone Shop

by Rena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my tumblr ficlets, from historial romance over mermaids to chocolate experiments gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [часть The Rag and Bone Shop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625997) by [Nymphalidae_Danainae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalidae_Danainae/pseuds/Nymphalidae_Danainae)



 

> **Prompt: Eddard Stark:** Knights and castles, lords/ladies and bannermen
> 
>  
> 
>  

Stiles stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look much like himself like this, all dressed up and fancy. He tries to shake the feeling that he’ll never really be able to be himself, that all he’ll ever see in the mirror from now on will be a carefully constructed lie. Someone who plasters on a polite but insincere smile, like everyone in court always does. 

It doesn’t matter. Others have been forced to play their parts for years; Stiles can count himself lucky to have had so many years of freedom. He’d always known the day would come that duty called and he'd have to step into that glorified cage, take on the responsibilities he never wanted but knows he must fulfil. 

He’s had his entirely life to get used to the thought. He’s prepared.

Not really.

It doesn't matter.

"You don’t have to do this," his father says gently. He sounds sad and nervous, defeated. Stiles musters up a small smile, if only to ease the King’s mind. His father has always wanted the best for him, has done everything he can to enable him to lead the life he always wanted. It’s not his fault he failed, in the end, that his hands are tied, that there is no other way out. Stiles knows that if there was another way, his father had taken it, and just for that, he’s grateful.

"Yes, I do," Stiles says firmly. "You know we can't win the war against Deucalion on our own."

"Stiles - "

"It's a good offer," Stiles cuts in. "The wolves make worthy allies. I know they have reputation of being ferocious, that people are afraid of them, but you know they have honour, and they will hold their word and protect us."

He cannot listen to his father trying to convince him that he still has a choice, can't let himself be tempted to run away, no matter how enticing the notion is. He knows his father is wary of the Hales; Stiles knows, because he is, too. He doesn't want to say he's afraid, but the truth is, he is. People tell all kinds of stories about the wolves, usually filled with bloodshed and violence. They are a secretive people, keep to themselves most of the time, so Stiles has no way of knowing how much truth these stories contain. He hopes, for his sake and everyone else's, that they are nothing but rumours.

After all, they have surprised him already. No one had really expected the Hales to accept the offer of Stiles' hand in marriage to one of the regents' children in exchange for their troop to help defend Beacon, but here they are. Stiles looks out of the window, sees the Hales' banners fluttering in the wind as his future spouse's company draws nearer, black triskelion a stark contrast against the silver background, and wills himself to hope.  

"Our country will be safe. Our people will be safe. That's all that matters."

"I just wanted you to be happy," his father says, squeezing his shoulder. "I wanted you to have what Claudia and I had. I know you wished for that, too."

"People get married to people they don't know all the time," Stiles says. "I choose to believe they find some happiness in their marriages despite that."

The look his father gives him tells him that he knows Stiles doesn't truly believe his own words. "I wish, with all my heart, that you will find all the happiness in the world."

"Thank you, father," Stiles chokes out, tears welling up when his father reels him in and pulls him close, envelops him in what might be the last hug they'll ever share.  The fanfares, signalling that the Hales have reached the city gate, eventually force them apart.

Stiles watches as his father steels himself, calm and collected mask covering his anxiety. "I shall go to welcome our guests," he says.

Stiles nods, and with a final pat on his shoulder, his father departs, leaving Stiles alone in his dressing room to contemplate his past and his future. He realises with a pang that he didn't get to say goodbye to his city; the last few days have been hectic, stressful, and he hasn't had time to roam the streets one last time to try and remember what they look like. He won't have the chance to, now. Come nightfall, he'll be married, and after the feast and the consummation, he will have to leave his country behind, possibly even before sunrise of the next day.

He's so lost in thought, in cherished memories of everything he'll have to leave behind, that he doesn't hear the door to his chambers open. "You are far too sad for someone celebrating the happiest day of their life."

Stiles startles when he hears an unfamiliar voice coming from behind him, soft, a strange cadence to the words. He turns around quickly, heart beating rabbit-fast in his chest. Leaning against the wall is the most gorgeous man Stiles has ever laid his eyes upon: tall, broad-shouldered, hair as dark as the symbol of his pack, with sharp cheekbones and intelligent, light eyes, dressed in furs that barely do anything to hide his remarkable physique.

He's never seen this man before, but he knows who is standing before him anyway. "Prince Derek," Stiles greets cautiously. "How did you get in here?" He asks the question before realising it might sound rude, and only just manages to suppress a grimace at his own stupidity. One should never offend a wolf - especially, he supposes, when one plans to marry into the family.

Luckily, Prince Derek seems amused, rather than affronted. "Your guards, it seems, have been distracted by the rest of the castle running around like headless chicken. They made it easy for me." He tilts his head. "It appears they are frightened by us."

"It's not every day that one gets to host the most prestigious pack known to man," Stiles reminds him.

"You are a good liar," Derek tells him. "Bending the words into a shape that makes them the truth, but not the whole truth. Tell me, are you afraid of me?"

"Tell me," Stiles retorts, "did you sneak into my chambers to assess my worth so you could call the wedding off should I not be to your liking, before I am standing in front of the altar and it is too late?"

Prince Derek actually laughs at that. "You are feisty. You will fare well amongst my kin," he says, almost proudly. "I apologise for seeking you out like this," he adds, suddenly sounding contrite. "I understand in your culture it is believed that seeing one's spouse before the wedding means bad luck, but I wanted to get the chance to speak to you in private before the ceremony."

"I - " Stiles blinks, confused. His head is swimming. He is to marry the _crown prince_? "What?"

There's a brief pause.

"You didn't know," Derek says, more deduction than question.

"I - " Stiles shakes his head. "The message didn't give a name. I assumed I was to wed one of your younger siblings - I know our kingdom isn't big or powerful, not is it particularly important - "

"It is important." Derek's tone leaves no room for argument. "It is important to you, and therefore it is important to me."

"- and I cannot possibly give you children," Stiles continues, talking over Derek. "Such an arrangement seems...unusual. It cannot possibly benefit you."

"Why would you believe you have nothing to offer me?" Derek asks, frowning. "Stiles, you offer me _everything_."

He doesn't understand. Marrying one of Derek's younger siblings would make sense; the Hale pack is a large one, and an alliance with Beacon would help extend their borders to the south, give them more hunting grounds at least, and access to one large stream and the trade that comes with it. To Stiles' knowledge, children born of humans and werewolves mostly carry the gene, so he could've helped expand the pack.

But Derek?

There is nothing that Stiles can give to Derek.

Stiles would almost believe someone is playing some crude joke, if it weren't for Derek being visibly and genuinely upset. "You don't know. How can you not - I thought you'd know," Derek mutters.

Stiles frowns. "Know what?"

When Derek looks at him, his face is raw and open, vulnerable. "I've been dreaming of you," he says quietly, and Stiles draws in a sharp breath. There are many myths about werewolves, one sounding more unlikely than the other, and there is one he'd always believed to be entirely impossible, but...

"Oh," Stiles breathes.

"I've been dreaming of you ever since I came of age. I've been waiting for you to...When your father sent for us, I was happier than I'd ever been before. I thought you...but I forgot you are human. I forgot it's not the same for you."

.Derek bows his head. "Forgive me, I did not mean to pressure you, or make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable."

"But you do not wish to marry me. I should have realised the moment I came here and found you sad."

Derek looks like he is only an eye's blink away from fleeing, and possibly never returning, so Stiles takes a step closer, closes his fingers over Derek's wrist. "I was sad," he admits, "I am, still, because I am leaving my home, my father. And I was afraid - afraid, mostly, that my betrothed might be unwilling or unable to love me, and that I would spend my life lonely and loveless. I see now that my fears were unfounded." He lays a hand on Derek's cheek, and the crown prince shudders and then relaxes under his touch. "I'm sorry it might take me a while to catch up," Stiles whispers. "But belike not very long, if you are willing to wait for me just a little longer."

Derek's smile is blinding. Slowly, he takes Stiles' hand, moves his from his cheek to his mouth, and presses a soft, warm kiss to his palm.

It feels like a promise.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

> **Prompt: Willy Wonka -** Something with chocolate
> 
>  
> 
>  

"Porn has lied to me."

Stiles sounds so affronted and betrayed as he stares down at Derek’s chest that Derek can’t help but laugh. His sides are actually beginning to hurt, he’s been laughing so much the past thirty minutes.

Stiles swats at his shoulder. “Shut up, I’m working through some serious trauma here.”

"You’ve seen dozens of people die but finding out that licking chocolate off someone’s chest isn’t as sexy as people say it is traumatises you?"

"Yes." Stiles sighs and throws the tube of liquid chocolate off the bed. "I’m sorry, I can’t do it. I never though there’d be such a thing as having too much chocolate, but if I taste one more hint of it I’m gonna puke."

"You were a bit….ambitious," Derek concedes, thinking of the rivulets of dark liquid running over his skin. It had been… an interesting feeling. Derek would never have described himself as ticklish, but Stiles has now taken enough kicks to the ribs to prove him wrong. 

"I don’t think I managed to catch half of it," Stiles says miserably. "It just ran too fast. Why isn’t it, like, hardening in the air? Heh… hardening."

"No," Derek says, because Stiles will follow one bad pun up with at least ten others when given the chance. "I think it might be my body temperature?" he guesses. "Or maybe the creators just thought it would be more… strenuous to lick the chocolate off if it hardened."

"I think I might have preferred a strained tongue to this." Stiles scrunches up his nose. "It kinda looks like we shit the bed, this is the  _worst_.”

Derek cracks up again. He’s covered in dark goo smelling too much like chemicals, the sheets are  _ruined_  and they both lost their erections a while ago but he still feels amazing. Sleeping with Stiles feels warm and familiar, relaxed. There is always something to laugh about, and it’s never, ever boring. 

"I think we can officially label this a failed experiment," he heaves once he has sucked enough air back into his lungs to form words.

Stiles is smiling at him, the quiet, private one, the one that’s reserved for moments like this, just between them, the one that always makes Derek feel like he’s falling and soaring high at the same time. “Nah,” he says softly, “I think I liked the results.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

> **Lucy Whitmore:** one of the pairing has no memory of the other
> 
>  

Stiles wakes to the smell of bacon and coffee which is nice. Also weird. He and Scott never bother with eating anything but cereal for breakfast - sometimes even dry, because they always forget to buy milk or they find the jug is already empty thanks to Stiles’ habit of putting empty cartons back into the fridge - mostly because they almost always oversleep, and the coffe shop on third has better coffee than either of them have ever managed to make. 

He blinks his eyes open to find himself in an unfamiliar room: tidy,or at least  _much_  tidier than Stiles’ room has ever been, filled with books,smelling warm and homely. The sheets are soft and worn, and Stiles could roll around in them forever except they obviously aren’t his and he has no idea where he is. 

He has to hand it to himself, though, his head feels surpisingly good considering the fact he apparently got so drunk last night that he hooked up with a stranger he can’t even remember now. No hangover from hell, yay him. 

Stiles contemplates the chances of stealing out of the apartment before his one night stand realises he’s awake. On the one hand…coffee sounds awesome. On the other…if he was so drunk he doesn’t remember anything after the fifth shot Erica handed him, he probably doesn’t really want to know who he went home with last night. It had been a while, and sexual frustration coupled with alcohol causes his standards to sink worryingly low. He’s been there before, and he doesn’t want to repeat it (ugh, Greenberg).

He sits up, surreptitiously scans the room for his clothes and finds a grand total of one sock.

Awesome. 

He’s not desperate - or drunk - enough to use it to cover his dick and try to find his way home in just that. Not to mention he probably wouldn’t make it half a mile before flashing an early morning jogger and being arrested for public indecency. 

"Fuck," he mutters angrily.

The clanging in the kitchen stops, only to be replaced by someone humming softly and footsteps drawing nearer. 

Stiles draws the sheets up to his chin - ridiculous, this person saw everything of him last night - and tries to steel himself for the worst.

Turns out, nothing could’ve ever prepared him for the sight of his one night stand leaning against the doorway in nothing but what looks like Stiles’ boxers, expertly balancing a tray in one hand. “Morning.”

"Holy shitballs," Stiles gapes, "I went home with a Greek God?"

The other guy, who was definitely chiseled from marble, maybe by Michelangelo himself, frowns in confusion. “I’m not… Greek.”

There’s an awkward pause. “Right,” Stiles says. 

"Breakfast?" The guy offers hesitantly.

"God, yes," Stiles moans, because for one, he’s not going to turn down the offer of free food especially when it smells this amazing, and secondly, he needs food to stomach the incredible awkwardness yet to come. And of course the cherry on top, he gets to look at the guy a little more. His beauty is blinding. Stiles might need sunglasses. 

He makes grabby hands at the coffee, which draws a soft, fond snort from the other guy. “Sooo,” Stiles says as he accepts the cup the guy hands him, clutches it tight, “for full disclosure, because it’s incredibly awkward having breakfast with someone you don’t know, I’m Stiles.”

The guy tenses. “I know,” he says slowly. 

"Oh," Stiles says. "That’s…that’s good then."

"Do you….." he clears his throat. "Do you not - "

"I’m so sorry," Stiles blurts. "I was super drunk last night and now I could hit myself for it because now I don’t remember and man, I hate myself because I wish I could remember every last second of you and the amazing, mind-blowing sex we must’ve had, really, I - uh…." he trails off, "I’m gonna stop now before I say something even more stupid and embarrassing." He draws a deep breath and asks, meekly, "Are you…are you gonna tell me your name or are you just gonna kick me out now?"

"…Do you want to be kicked out?" the guy asks, eyebrows raised.

"Are you kidding me, you made me breakfast, and I kinda wanna look at your forever." Stiles slaps a hand over his mouth. "Shit."

The guy laughs softly. "I have to admit this didn’t exactly go how I imagined….”

"How did you imagine it?"

"Well, I thought I’d make you breakfast, you’d be very grateful and then we wouldn’t get out of bed until at least noon…tomorrow."

"I like that plan," Stiles breathes. "No, seriously, I’d be so totally on board… I like the idea of you not kicking me out and us having a few rounds of amazing sex that I can actually remember."

"Stop talking like you’re afraid I’m gonna kick you out, Stiles" he grumbles. "I made you  _breakfast_.”

"Eh," Stiles says. "I must’ve been a good lay, at least."

The guy looks at him, considering. “You were,” he says in a voice that implies that he was even more than that, and Stiles’ heartbeat goes crazy. He should’ve known, he knows the rules of one night stands after all, the theory that if you have breakfast it’s not just a one night stand, but still he can’t help the smile that spreads over his face.

"I’m more coordinated when sober," he offers. "Maybe not quite as flexible, but…."

"You want to?"

"Hell yes!"

The guy smiles. “I’m Derek,” he says, right before Stiles tangles his fingers in his hair and draws him close.

"Hi." Stiles beams, and tips them sideways.

The coffee is cold when they get around to actually drinking it, but neither of them could care less. 


	4. Chapter 4

 

> **Lizzie Bennet:** one of the pairing is a YouTube star
> 
>  

Stiles sighs dreamily, rests his chin on his hands, watches enraptured as the muscles in Derek’s back work. He wants to catch the pearls of sweat rolling off his skin…with his tongue.

"You do realise this is kind of creepy, right?"

Stiles flails so hard he nearly slides off his chair, and twists to glare at his best friend, who looks entirely too smug for having snuck up on him. Scott blithely ignores the daggers Stiles sends his way, just shoves another handful of popcorn into his mouth. 

"Excuse you," Stiles sniffs, "watching fitness videos on youtube is not creepy."

"It kinda is, though," Scott says, "when you don’t watch it for work out tips but only because you want to lick every inch of the instructor’s body."

"How do you know I don’t watch it for the tips?"

"Dude, you haven’t lifted a single muscle voluntarily since we left high school and you weren’t forced to do PE," Scott scoffs. "Also, you moan at the screen sometimes."

"…just sounds of sympathy for the guy’s poor strained muscles I feel their pain." 

Scott gives him a look.

"Yeah, okay, no, you’re right."

"You know," Scott says, awfully casually, "Isaac asked me to go the gym with him last week."

"I know, dude, you told me. Am I supposed to, like, care?" Stiles asks. "You’re not going to try and convince me to join again, are you?"

"Just saying, the inside of Isaac’s gym looks an awful lot like the one in the videos." 

Stiles scoffs. “It’s a gym, they all look the same.”

"Pretty sure not all gyms come with a mandatory version of Derek Hale."

"It’s a gym, dude, there are buff, muscly guys everywhere."

"Stiles, you’re not listening to me," Scott says patiently. "This one has the original."

Stiles freezes. “You’re  _joking_.”

"Nope." Scott grins. "And because I’m an awesome friend, I signed you up for a free trial…starting today. Pack your stuff, we’re leaving in five." He pats Stiles on the shoulder and saunters off, leaving Stiles to stare after him, gaping. 

He just… he needs a minute to process. “Scott, you ass!” he cries, “I only have my rattiest, oldest pair of sweatpants here. They’re  _two sizes too small_!”

Actually, two sizes might be a generous guess. He’d bough them before he’d hit his last growth spurt and started to fill out a little; in high school, he’d mostly needed his lacrosse uniform, and well, back then looking good while doing sports hadn’t been his biggest priority once he’d figured out that Lydia wouldn’t look at him no matter how great he looked. 

"Don’t worry, bro, they make your ass look great!" Scott shouts back, and Stiles can hear him snickering. Stiles might take away all his best friend privileges. "Now get that pretty ass in gear if you wanna get there while Derek’s still on shift."

[They do get there in time, even though Stiles bitches at Scott the entire drive to the gym. As it turns out, he  _does_  have a pretty good ass. Good enough to make Derek trip over a yoga mat when he sees Stiles bending over. Aw yiss. He’s totally got this in the bag.]


	5. Chapter 5

>   
> **strangers who meet at the 24/7 grocery shop at 3am every wednesday nigh** t.
> 
>  

Stiles has taken to actually  _dressing up_  for his late night trips to the grocery store.

It’s not ridiculous.

Okay, maybe it’s ridiculous. It’s also totally understandable. Everyone would do it if the hottest guy in town happened to get his groceries every wednesday night at 3 am, like clockwork - a fact that Stiles totally didn’t find out by loitering around the store every night for a week. He made a bad enough first impression the first time he saw the hot dude, what with being dressed like a hobo and not having showered in three days and knocking the dude over, effectively spilling all his stuff on the ground and squashing a few tomatoes under his feet, he doesn’t need to add creepy stalker to the list. 

Now that’s he’s generally dressed better - as well as Stiles ever dresses that is; his style isn’t usually something Lydia would acknowledge to be a style - and they see each other every week, he and hot guy have already upgraded their relationship to nodding at each other from a distance. 

They’re really close to exchanging actual words, Stiles can feel it in his  ~~boner~~   bones. 

He watched as the hot guy, standing just a few feet away from him, picks up an avocado and inspects it thoroughly, feels whether it’s ripe enough to eat. Stiles kind of wishes he was that avocado, and God, there’s something really wrong with him. 

"I wish I was that avocado," Stiles blurts out, before he can stop himself. "Oh shit," he says, slap a palm over his mouth, and flees. When he ventures a quick glance over his shoulders as he sprints out of the door, the hot guy is still standing there, avocado in hand and looking after him, utterly bewildered. 

.

Stiles doesn’t go back to the store the next week. By the second week, though, he misses hot guy’s face. He thinks maybe he can get away with chalking the comment up to temporary insanity due to sleep deprivation. If not…well, Stiles thinks he’ll probably know the moment hot guy decides to introduce his fist to Stiles’ chin. 

He’s there at 3am sharp, as always, but he doesn’t see the hot guy anywhere. It’s disappointing. Scott would try to find the positive side, say, “hey, at least you’re still alive”, but it just makes Stiles miserable, which he doesn’t think is an appropriate reaction to not seeing a guy who never talked to him.

He’s just about to give up waiting when someone taps him on the shoulder. Stiles turns around to find Hot Guy standing behind him, ears already burning red and hands fiddling with the hands of his shirt.

"You could be the avocado," he says hesitantly. "If you still want."

Stiles only barely resists jumping him in the middle of the Candy aisle. 


	6. Chapter 6

> **Derek is a talented writer and Stiles finds the love notes and poems and sonnets he writes for him hidden somewhere**
> 
>  

Stiles doesn’t know what exactly he expects when he goes snooping under Derek’s bed - no okay, yeah, he knows exactly what he expects. He expects porn.

He finds love poems. 

Stiles sits down on Derek’s bed and takes a moment to adjust his worldview. He almost feels the Earth’s axis screech as it shifts and tilts, and it only gets worse when he starts reading them. He doesn’t mean to, he knows this is an invasion of privacy, moreso than looking for porn was, because this is intimate, this is personal, but he can’t help himself.

Derek’s writing is  _beautiful_. It makes his heart clench and ache, it draws him in and spins him around, leaves him happy and sad and confused at the same time. It even makes him fall in love with the person Derek writes about, just a little, just by seeing them through Derek’s eyes and Stiles…Stiles hasn’t felt like that for a long time. 

He’s still staring at the poems in dazed wonder when Derek comes in. He freezes at the sight of Stiles, all colour draining from his face.

"You  _love me_ ,” Stiles says, awed. 

Derek nods, deer-in-the-headlight expression still in place. Stiles doesn’t need super hearing to know his heart is beating like crazy.

Stiles gingerly folds the paper up, places it back in the box, fingers lingering over the page. His hands are shaking a little, he notices. “I don’t write poems very well,” he says eventually, apologetic, and looks up at Derek. 

"That’s okay," Derek replies. "I don’t need you to."

Stiles thinks of the smell of clorine, of a hand pushing him back and Derek telling him to run, thinks of a solid body between him and Peter, the warmth of Derek lying beside him on the police station’s floor, of flickering lights in an elevator, of blood on his hands and endless hours spent searching, worrying, fighting to bring Stiles back. “What if I want to?” he whispers.

Derek blinks, surprised, tentative hopefulness glowing in his eyes. “I can show you, if you want,” he says quietly, takes a step forward and holds out his hand.

"I might not be very good at it, anymore."

"That’s okay," Derek says again. "I might not, either. But we have time."

Stiles curls his fingers around Derek’s, and for the first time in weeks, he feels like he can breathe again.


	7. Chapter 7

> **Merman!Stiles caught in Fisherman!Derek's fishing net!**
> 
>  

Derek had caught several big fish in his - admittedly still relatively short - lifetime. His father had taken him out on the sea for the first time when he turned six, and almost every day since; he’d thought he’d seen everything. 

That was before he hauled back his net and was faced first with a huge, wildly thrashing fishtail, and then, when he grabbed it, and pulled his catch aboard wide, frightened golden eyes staring back at him out of the most beaultiful face he’d ever laid his eyes upon. 

A  merman. He’d caught a bloody  _merman_. These creatures shouldn’t even exist outside of stories. And yet…

Slowly, he reached for his knife. The creature flinched back, and Derek froze. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, even though he didn’t even know if he could understand what Derek was saying, “I don’t want to hurt you. Just try to hold still.”

Miraculously, the merman sat completely still while Derek cut the net around him, freeing his tail from the tangles of rope. Derek quietly mourned the hours of work he’d put into making the net and dreaded the thought of how long it would take him to fix it, but the surprised gratitude on the merman’s face when he dropped the tattered net and stepped back, laying down the knife, was worth it. 

One moment, the creature was there, looking at him…and the next, he jumped off the boat in a single fluid motion, and disappeared into the depth of the ocean. 

For the longest time, Derek doubted his own sanity, wondered whether the encounter had actually happened; the torn fishing net was the only proof he had that the merman existed. Until one day, a few months later, he was caught in a storm and went over board. 

When he woke up, a face was looming over him. 

"Hello, handsome,"the merman said, and Derek smiled.


	8. Chapter 8

 

>  
> 
> **Sterek + one convincing the other to stay in bed instead of go to work**
> 
>  

"Noooo," Stiles tightened his grip on Derek. "No leaving, leaving is bad."

Derek sighed. “Stiles, I have to go to work.”

"I can give you a thorough work-out." Stiles fluttered his eyelashes.

"You’re ridiculous."

"And you love me," Stiles said. "I’m serious, call in sick, whatever, I’m not letting you go today, finals are finally over and I need you to help me clear my head. You can screw every thought of econ 101 out of my brain."

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you gonna need that knowledge again?”

"Yeah, I’m not sure you can actually permanently fuck stuff out of my head. You’re awesome in bed, but not  _that_  awesome.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “Challenge accepted.”


	9. Chapter 9

> **Cher Horowitz:** one of the pairing is a spoiled, rich kid
> 
>  

When they pull up in front of the mansion, Stiles heaves an exaggerated sigh. Unfortunately, seventeen years of experience have made his father impervious to Stiles’ methods of persuasion.

“ _Stiles_ ,” is all he says, and yup, that’s his classical  _zero tolerance for bullshit_  voice. Awesome. It’s incredible what a loaded message his dad can convey by only saying his name. This time, it’s “stop being a brat”, “behave or I’ll take your phone and laptop from you for a week” and “yes, you absolutely do have to”.

It’s the last one that Stiles really takes exception to. “Da-ad,” he whines.

His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ve had this discussion before, and we’re not having it again. As the sheriff of Beacon Hills, I  _have_ to maintain a good relationship with the mayor, and yes, that also means having the occasional dinner with Mrs Hale and her family.”

"I get that. I just don’t get why  _I_  have to come.”

"Look, I get that you and the Hale boy in your year aren’t exactly on friendly terms -"

Stiles snorts. Understatement of the fucking century. Derek Hale is self-centred and fucking spoiled brat who gets away with  _everything_  just because his mother’s position. No one cuts Stiles any slack just because he’s the sheriff’s son; but Derek can skip class and fail to hand in his homework on time and still get good grades. He can be super obnoxious in class and still have his ass kissed by all the teachers, even Harris. Harris, who hates  _everyone_. Derek can break hearts left and right and yet girls and boys fall over themselves to get date with him, or even just have him smile at them. It’s fucking ridiculous. As is Derek’s car. Seriously, what eighteen year old boy is pretentious enough to drive a _Camaro_?

Derek fucking Hale, that’s who.

”- I expect at least a basic level of civility,” his father finishes. “Understood?”

Stiles nods, even though he hasn’t really listened to a word he said. Oh well. The Derek Hales and Jackson Whittemores of this world can crash and burn for all he cares, but he loves his dad more than he despises people the likes of Derek, so he can be polite if it means making his dad happy. He’s just not making any guarantees about his reactions when being provoked and, let’s be real, that’s likely to happen, because the dislike is mutual, and Stiles is pretty sure Derek’s impulse control is even poorer than Stiles’, and he doesn’t even have ADHD to explain that away.

He trudges up the stairs to the front door after his dad and plasters on a smile when Talia Hale throws the door open and greets them enthusiastically. She’s a stern looking woman with a surprisingly big heart, and, from what Stiles can tell, a kickass politician that actually makes sound decisions based on logic that everyone benefits from.

Derek is not likely to follow in her footsteps, he thinks, and,  ~~speak~~  think of the devil, he appears on top of the stairs, looking sleep-ruffled and surprisingly soft in a wrinkled BHHS shirt and sweatpants. That only lasts a second, though, before he sees Stiles and tenses up. “Mum,” he says. “What is Stiles doing here?”

Wait, since when does Derek even know his name? He’s always acted like Stiles was so inferior to him that he didn’t even deign him worthy of breathing the same air.

"Oh, silly me," Mrs Hale says, pretending not to notice the hostility in Derek’s voice, "I forgot to mention we’d be having the Stilinskis over for dinner. It’s good you got up just now - you and Stiles can go upstairs to hang out until dinner starts while the sheriff and I talk business."

Oh fuck. Fuck. Shit.  _No_.

"Actually, I- " Stiles begins, just as Derek whines, "Mum", but both Mrs Hale and his father level them with equally stern looks - which,  _creepy_  - and Stiles slumps, defeated. Derek looks like he swallowed a lemon but surprisingly enough he doesn’t put up more of a fight. He just jerks his head towards the room behind him, gesturing for Stiles to follow him, and stomps off. Stiles, after his father gives him a totally inconspicuous shove, scrambles after him and steadfastly ignores Mrs Hale’s fond sigh, “ah, _children_.”

Entering Derek’s room is a bit like entering a tiny castle. His room is, like, twice the size of Stiles’, with a huge bed that probably has fucking silk sheets, and electronic devices arguably worth more than Stiles’ jeep…three times over. Derek is curled up on a large armchair, tablet in one hand and a bottle of JD in the other.

Stiles raises his eyebrows when he takes a large gulp of it straight out of the bottle. “You’re underage,” is all he says.

"I don’t care," Derek says gruffly. "I’m gonna need alcohol to get through this evening."

"Classy," Stiles remarks. "I’m sure your mum is gonna be thrilled."

"She won’t say anything."

"My dad is the  _sheriff_ ,” Stiles points out. “Pretty sure she can’t condone you getting drunk illegally when you have someone in the house who is obligated to not turn a blind eye. I know this might be a difficult concept for you to grasp, but not everyone worships the ground you walk on, and my dad _will_  arrest you if you show up drunk.”

Derek shrugs. “My parents will bail me out.”

"True, but it won’t look good on your record. But hey, do what you want, no skin off my back." Stiles glances around. "Am I allowed to sit down somewhere, your Highness, or am I polluting the environment with my very presence?"

"Very funny," Derek snarks. He does put the bottle of Jack away, which is unexpected, and then continues to look at Facebook photos he’s been tagged in without sparing Stiles another glance, which is not. "Sit down wherever - as long as we ignore each other the entire time we’re stuck here."

Well, that’s an art they’ve both perfected; it’s going to be boring as hell, but preferable to anything else. “Sure thing, Joey Donner,” Stiles agrees, giving Derek a sarcastic thumbs up, and flops down on the edge of the bed. The sheets  _are_  silk. Fucker.

"Seriously?" Derek asks, annoyed.

Stiles blinks at him innocently. “What? You said to sit down wherever.”

"That’s not -  _Joey Donner_? What the fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles clamps down on his surprised that Derek actually got that reference. “It’s an accurate analogy,” he defends himself. “Rich, popular, narcissistic…”

"Right," Derek spits. "And who, dare I ask, would you be in this scenario?"

Stiles hums thoughtfully. “I like to think I’m Kat.”

"Because you’re feisty and think you’re better than anyone else?" Derek shakes his head. "Nah, if I am Joey, then you are Bianca - pretty, but unable or unwilling to see what’s behind the surface, the one person I wanna date but can’t get…"

"Hey, I could be Bianca if it means I get to punch you in the face for being a dick all the time," Stiles retorts easily. And then Derek’s word register. He whips his head around to stare at Derek. He’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open unattractively, but that’s a minor concern now. "Wait,  _what_?”

Derek’s grip on his tablet is so tight that Stiles is convinced it’ll snap in two any second. “Come on, it’s not like you don’t know.”

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles asks. "You’re joking, right? Oh, why am I even thinking about this, of course you’re joking. You  _hate_  me. I hate you, end of story.”

"Yes, thank you, Stiles, I’m aware that you think I’m the most worthless piece of scum to ever walk the earth," Derek replies icily, staring determinedly out of the window and refusing to look at Stiles. "You’ve made it very clear. Can you drop it, please?"

Stiles finds himself unable to move or even find words. He’s never….he’s never heard Derek say please in a way that suggested he was  _this close_  to begging. And he’s never seen Derek hurt, either. The Derek he knows is made entirely of blatant showing-off and endless swagger, and a certain holier-than-thou attitude towards anyone who’s not in his circle of friends (which, guess what, consists entirely of other rich kids and lacrosse stars).

"I - " He clears his throat. "I don’t think that of you."

"Right."

Derek’s voice is tight, bitter. It makes Stiles feel like an absolute asshole. “I don’t”, he protests.

"I overheard you talking to Scott," Derek cuts in. "After I tried to ask you out. You made yourself very clear."

Well, now Stiles is just confused. “When did you ever ask me out?” he asks. “You don’t even talk to - wait. The time you tried to spray-paint my locker….?”

Derek grimaces.

"Dude," Stiles says. "That is…I don’t even know what that is, but it is  _not_  an appropriate way of asking someone out.”

"I thought you might like it," Derek murmurs, nearly inaudibly.

Stiles feels strangely  touched. He’d assumed Derek using his locker as graffiti canvas was supposed to end up in a crude joke; that the half-finished Spiderman would, when finished, insult Stiles’ nerd status. Now that he thinks back on it, he can imagine what the end product might have looked like, and holy shit, Derek was thinking of an original way to ask him out, specifically tailored to Stiles’ interests.  

He doesn’t really know what to make of that, doesn’t know what to say for the longest time. It’s only when Mrs Hale yells for them to come downstairs and Derek moves to stand that he speaks up. “Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you ask me out because I’m the only one who didn’t mindlessly try to throw himself on your dick, or because you’re genuinely interested in me?”

Derek freezes. “I’m….a bit of both, probably.” He shrugs helplessly, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “There aren’t a lot of people who dare to call me out for being an asshole, or snark back, or simply say no to me. You do. That’s part of what makes you so interesting to me, I guess. But it’s…it’s not the only thing.”

"Like, I’m pretty?" Stiles asks, recalling Derek likening him to Bianca Stratford.

"And smart. And funny. Also kind of a dick," Derek adds and Stiles snorts, "which I suppose is something I like because I’m kind of a dick, too."

"Boys, dinner is ready!" Mrs Hale calls again, oblivious to the heartfelt confessions going on in her son’s bedroom.

"Coming!" Derek shouts back.

"Tell you what," Stiles says quietly as they trudge down the stairs. "We get through this dinner without killing each other and you use your words to ask me out properly, and then we’ll see if you can convince me that you’re not Joey Donner and I can convince you I’m no Bianca Stratford still in need of a Cameron to open her eyes. And then…we’ll go from there."

Derek stops at the bottom of the stairwell and looks him up and down, considering. “Okay,” he says eventually. “But I’m not paying for three helpings of curly fries only for you.”

"Excuse you," Stiles sputters. "Between the two of us, you are the only one who can afford it. You gotta share your fortune with us poor peasants."

"Suck it up, Stilinski."

"Oh, there’s  _something_  I can suck up, alright,” Stiles mutters, just for the satisfaction of seeing Derek trip over thin air.

Huh. This might actually be really awesome. 


	10. Chapter 10

> (905): He handed me a temporary tattoo and said cover the hickey up with this
> 
>  

When Stiles stumbles into the kitchen, all uncoordinated limbs, rings under his eyes and hair a complete disaster, the sheriff eyes him with equal parts judgement and amusement over the rim of his coffee mug.

"Morning, son" he says pointedly. "Had fun last night?"

"Uh-huh," Stiles mumbles. He's not exactly sober or awake enough to have a full-fledged conversation with his father; it's five-thirty in the morning, he hasn't slept at all, his clothes are still beer-soaked and stink of smoke. He's a fucking _mess_ , and he would give everything for the opportunity to call in sick and spend the rest of the day at the only place he has truly wanted to be for the past, like, two years: Derek's bed, with Derek warm and sleepy next to him.

It's a particularly cruel twist of fate that the first time he hooked up with Derek, he doesn't get to stay. He's so sad he could _cry -_ but he's also a grown-ass man who can acknowledge that right now he has more important shit to deal with. Like finding a way to sober up and get changed in time for his early shift at the station. A hung-over (read: still tipsy) police officer can't exactly be a role model.

Dear God, his father is going to skin him alive. And he'll definitely not allow him to take a sick day when he knows the only reason Stiles can't come into work is his irresponsible alcohol intake while being fully aware of his commitments at work. He's gonna make him do paper work for a month, at least.

Stiles is ripped out of his lament by his father snapping his fingers in front of his face. He jerks back and groans at the pang shooting through his head, drops his face in his hands and massages his temples. "What was that?" he asks.

"I said," the sheriff smirks, "I can see that."

"I'm aware, thanks."

"Are you?"

"Huh?" Stiles blinks, confused.

"Interesting choice of .... _body art_." The sheriff nods at Stiles' neck and very unsubtly bites back a snicker.

Stiles' hand flies to cover his neck, blushing bright red when he remembers. "Um," he says, because honestly, he's at a loss.

"Eloquent," the sheriff comments. "Don't worry, this is not the strangest thing I've ever seen you do, and I knew you never grew out of your dinosaur phase. Still, however fetching your ornamentation, you'll have to wash it off asap. You know the rules, no visible tattoos, even when they're fake. Not to mention I have no desire to get a call from an upset Mrs. Fletcher, convinced that it's real and you've turned into a real bad boy."

"Right," Stiles says, and then again, "right." Maybe, just maybe, he'll be lucky enough to pass off the giant hickey underneath the Brachiosaurus as a result of too-vigorous scrubbing. He does have super irritable skin, after all. "Yeah, I'm - I'll take a shower and totally wash it off, no problem, pops."

Unfortunately, his dad knows him too well. He looks him up and down for a second and the groans. "Aw, hell, son."

"What?" Stiles asks defensively. It's a reflex he's carried from his childhood years into adulthood - never admit to being guilty of anything in advance, in fact, never admit to anything unless you absolutely can't help it. He can't count the times he's accidentally revealed something he did that his dad didn't actually know about, when he was actually about to ream him out over some usually more insignificant matter. Yup, he's learnt the hard way that his mouth always gets him into trouble.

"I'm not gonna like what's beneath there, am I?"

"That depends?" Stiles ventures.

"On?"

Yeah, okay, there's no point in trying to sweep this under the rug. He and Derek may have been super drunk last night - the fact that Derek handed him a temporary tattoo to cover up the largest hickey on his neck is proof enough of that - but Stiles knows this isn't a one-time thing. They've been dancing around each other for ages, and if Stiles has anything to say, last night will just have been the first in a long series of nights filled with awesome sex, followed by days filled with laughter and good-tempered snarking at each other, only to culminate in marriage and possibly a house with a nice picket fence and one or two kids and a dog, and _happy ever afters,_ and Stiles isn't naive enough to believe they'll be able to hide their relationship from his dad for even a couple of days.

 "How fond are you of Derek these days?"

His dad's eyebrows shoot up. "You got _that_ from Derek?" he asks incredulously, eyes still transfixed on the ridiculous neon green dinosaur haphazardly stuck on Stiles' neck.

Stiles shrugs. "He has a lot of hidden depths."

"Well, his thing for biting people ain't one of them," the sheriff says drily, and Stiles chokes on his own spit. His dad grins smugly, the bastard; he's always taken special pleasure in embarrassing Stiles. He pats him on the back consolingly and then sighs. "Dammit son, don't tell me you stole away in the dead of the night just after the two of you finally got your shit together."

 "He knows - I didn't," Stiles splutters. " _Work_ ," he stresses, because one-word sentences are still the easiest to produce for his alcohol-marinated brain. "I've got....work."

His dad fixes him with a stern look. "While I admire your dedication and excellent work ethics," he says, "for the sake of all of us, get your butt back to Derek's. I'll call in Martinez instead. You won't be of any help to me today anyways, and she's been begging me for extra shifts. Plus, I'd rather you completely sorted out your relationship status asap, before I have to deal with the two of you pining and moping for another few years."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, not knowing what to say. He finally settles on: "You're the _best_!"

"I know." The sheriff claps his shoulder. "I'll drop you off on my way to the station. Please wait with the heartfelt love declarations and ripping each other's clothes off until I'm out of sight and hearing range."

Stiles trips over nothing. 


	11. Chapter 11

 

> "You want me to do what?" + “Are you flirting with me?”
> 
> inspired by [this post](http://hellasterek.tumblr.com/post/85512274545/aliassmith-x-because-fuck-canon-au-where)
> 
>  

"You want me to do what?" Derek asks, because surely, he must’ve heard wrong. There is no those words just left his mother’s mouth; she’s not one for jokes.

"You heard me," Talia says, smiling tightly like she can suddenly read his mind too. "I want you to lead the negotiations with the newly arrived McCall pack. You’re going to work out a contract with whoever Scott McCall sends that is beneficial for both sides. They will ask for permission to stay on our territory at least until the pack graduates college, which I am willing to grant them, as well as mutual  protection and assistance should the need arise, with a no-aggression clause from both sides. "

"Yeah, that’s what I thought I heard," Derek mutters darkly. "I’m not entirely sure I understand, though."

"I’m with Derek on that one," Laura says, raising her hand.  "I mean this in the nicest way possible, and please don’t take this the wrong way but Mum…did you hit your head?"

"Is there a right way to take this?" Talia asks.

Beside Derek, Cora snickers into her fist in obvious glee. Derek is tempted to glare at her, but it’s not actually an unwarranted reaction. This entire situation - this entire notion is ridiculous. Derek is not cut out for conducting negotiations. He’s, as his family members never fail to assert, awkward and socially inept, and while he’s not technically mean, he often comes off as rude and abrasive. Not to mention he dislikes associating with strangers and he can get quite hot-headed and stubborn, all of which are not qualities of a good negotiator or pack representative. His mother knows that better than anyone.

If they really send him, there is no way he’s not going to screw this up in one way or another, regardless of how often or well he’s read up on pack traditions and rituals. Theory =/= practice. The first thing, he’s good at. The second - yeah, he doesn’t want to find out. One wrong word and he might cause a pack war. With his luck, he probably will.

What is his mother _thinking_?

"Why wouldn’t you send Deaton?" he asks, cold sweat making his hands clammy. He wipes his palms on his jeans, even though his family can already tell how much he’s freaking out.

His mother sighs. “Derek, honey,” she begins, and uh oh, here it comes, “you know I love you just the way you are; we all do. But I’m worried about you. It feels like you’re drifting, aimless. It’s about time you stepped up and took on some responsibility. One day, when I’m gone, Laura will be the alpha, and you will be her right-hand man, and that means you won’t be able to hide behind books anymore.”

"So you’re throwing me in at the deep end, where the sharks are swimming, and hope I can swim?"

Talia scoffs slightly. “The McCall pack are hardly sharks. They’re very strong an powerful despite being a ragtag bunch of teenager, yes, but they’re also very young and inexperienced when it comes to formalities. They won’t take offence as easily as other, older, established packs might.”

"Oh, so when I inevitably screw up, I won’t ruin everything?" Derek says bitterly. "Awesome."

"That is not what I meant, Derek."

"It’s true, though."

"No." Talia shakes her head.  "But you can’t run before you’ve learnt how to walk, so you should start with an easy task. I have faith in you, Derek,  and so do the others. You’re the only one who believes that everything you do will bring harm to the pack. I understand where these thoughts are coming from, but you need to let go of that guilt. It’s completely misplaced, and you’re the only one blaming you for what happened." She steps closer, frames his face with her hands and smiles, her voice turning soft. "My wonderful, breathtaking boy. I know you’ll make us proud; you always do."

Derek draws in a shaky breath. The words don’t really make him feel better, but he knows he can’t defy his alpha either way. Talia won’t force him, but he doesn’t want to disappoint her pre-emptively. He’s been enough of a disappointment to his family, it’s time to make it up to them by turning into the person they want him to be. “I’d better go and…study.”

**∞**

The McCall pack send their Emissary.

Derek is _so_ fucked. Not in the literal sense, unfortunately, or in the sense that he anticipated, but fucked all the same.

The negotiations are going… surprisingly well. Derek is still tense and tight-lipped, hates the way Stiles barely stifles a giggle every time Derek brings traditional pack gifts to show their good will, but he’d a little more relaxed now that he’s realised that Stiles isn’t laughing at him so much as he is unable to hide his amusement about rituals that are unfamiliar and strange to him. It still hurts a little, like Stiles is mocking what he is, but he knows by now that Stiles is not malicious. He’s just a teenager, still a little immature, coming from an untraditional pack led by an Alpha who has never had anyone to guide him, to teach him the old ways.

"We’re making this up as we go along," Stiles said at their first meeting, shrugging casually. He’s really well prepared for the negotiations, however, and he’s probably better at it than Derek. He’s not afraid to say no, and he knows what he wants, makes his demands and stands his ground.  There have been heated discussions, but all in all the results have been satisfying so far.

The only problem is that Stiles is…well. He’s unique. He’s smart and stubborn and funny and loyal, and really fucking beautiful. Derek wants to bend him over the table, pull his hair until it’s messy, kiss his plush, soft mouth until his lips are red and shining and swollen, wants to fuck the breath and the snarkiness out of him until all Stiles can do is scream his name.

It’s distracting.

It’s also hugely immoral and just plain _wrong_. There is one rule that one is never ever allowed to break, and that’s _don’t try to steal away another pack’s Emissary._ Emissaries are sacred, important; getting involved with one, even making advances, is generally considered the biggest offense possible, worse even than trying to turn humans born into a pack.

Derek is just very lucky Stiles has always come to their meeting alone. If he was in company of a werewolf and they picked up on Derek’s attraction to him, he’d be dead. Even so, what he’s doing is risky; he should’ve just told Deaton to go, because if Stiles ever figures it out…well, same result.

It’s insane and dangerous and irresponsible, but God, Derek _wants,_ and the thought of not seeing Stiles is excruciating. To be honest, the negotiations have only been  dragged on so long because Derek kept finding new details to argue over; it now has about ten times more subclauses than the average residence permit does and covers even the most obscure and bizarre circumstances and what-ifs, all of that not because he’s been thorough and paranoid, as his family assumes, but because he’s ridiculously hung up on someone he shouldn’t even think about.

"Hm," Stiles hums as he reads over Derek’s latest draft of the contract, "looks like we can agree on this."

"No further modifications?" Derek asks, surprised and a little heartbroken. Stiles, too, has played the game, mostly, he suspects, because Derek kept granting the McCall pack extra rights. Derek is ashamed to say that he panics a little, because he’s been counting on Stiles to find some other minor detail to discuss, since he hasn’t been able to come up with anything else for the life of him. If they sign the contract now, he probably won’t see Stiles anymore. While contact between the two packs isn’t forbidden, they have agreed to stay out of each other’s way as much as possible to avoid tension.

"Nah, I think we’re good." Stiles leans forward, smirks at Derek. "But I gotta say, I admire how detail-oriented you are. Tell me, are you that attentive and dedicated in every aspect of your life?"

"Pretty much." Derek shrugs. "My sisters think I’m anal retentive."

"Oh?" Stiles’ smirk morphs into something that can only be classified as a leer. "You like anal?"

Derek freezes. “I…” He stares at Stiles, who is blushing a little, like he is embarrassed by that segue - which he should be, that line was terrible- but also looking at him with both hesitation and hope. “Are you….are you flirting with me?”

Stiles’ cheeks turn a darker shade of red. “Yes,” he says, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “Yes, I was? I thought that was obvious.”

Derek can’t think of a single thing to say.

"I mean, I’d like to take you to dinner sometime. Maybe tonight, if you’re free?" Stiles face falls a little when Derek doesn’t answer. "I promise I’ll come up with better lines. Well, I’ll try. I’m kind of the king of horrible innuendos, but I can probably hold them back if they wig you out."

"I’m….Stiles, I - we." Derek takes a deep breath. "No."

"Oh." Stiles says, expression turning blank. "Wow, okay, I guess I read this all wrong.  I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable." He clears his throat. "Yeah, I guess I’ll just…." he jerks his thumb towards the exit, "skedaddle."

"Stiles -"

"I should probably send Scott over with the signed contract so we can both avoid the humiliation."

"Stiles!" Derek interrupts his babbling, raising his voice to make sure Stiles doesn’t just talk over him. "You didn’t."

"I didn’t what?"

"You didn’t read this wrong," Derek admits quietly. "And you didn’t make me uncomfortable."

Stiles blinks, confused. “Then why -“

"We can’t. An Emissary and a member of another pack….that’s unthinkable."

"I never saw a law about that," Stiles remarks.

"It’s unwritten, but that doesn’t mean it’s not real," Derek argues, tries to ignore the pain in his chest. "It’s considered an insult to the Emissary’s Alpha, and feuds have been started for less than that."

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Scott doesn’t get a say in who I date,” he says.

"I know Scott’s an unconventional Alpha but -"

"If you had a guarantee that Scott doesn’t mind," Stiles interrupts him, "if you had it in written form, officially signed and everything, would you want to go on a date with me?"

"Yes," Derek says, not quite sure where Stiles is going with this.

"Will your family eat me alive if we go on a date?"

"I…no?"

"Awesome. Gimme that pen." Derek hands it to him in a daze and Stiles snatches it away impatiently, begins scribbling like crazy, mumbling under his breath about not believing that he’s being caught in a stupid Romeo and Juliet type forbidden romance after all the shit he gave Scott about dating a hunter. When he’s done, he leans back with a satisfied grin, turns the paper around and slides it back over the table towards Derek. "Think your pack will agree with this addendum?"

Below the carefully worded rules it says, in Stiles’ chicken scratch handwriting and almost aggressive capital letters:

_ALL MEMBERS OF BOTH PACKS REGARDLESS OF STATUS AND POSITION ARE ALLOWED TO ENTER IN A CONSENSUAL INTER-PACK RELATIONSHIP WITHOUT ANY REPERCUSSIONS. NEITHER THE RELATIONSHIP NOR ITS POTENTIAL (BUT UNLIKELY) END MUST BE CONSIDERED A REASON FOR STARTING ACTS OF AGGRESSION. NEITHER THE RELATIONSHIP NOR A POSSIBLE SUBSEQUENT MARRIAGE MUST BE CONSIDERED AN ACT OF UNITING THE  TWO PACKS, NOR MAY IT BE USED TO FORCE THE PARTIES TO CHOOSE BETWEEN THE TWO PACKS. PACK POLITICS MUST NOT BE CONSIDERED A REASON TO INTEREFERE WITH THE RELATIONSHIP._

Derek swallows, clears his throat, then clears it again for good measure to get rid of the lump in his throat. “Marriage, huh?”

Stiles grins easily. “I like to aim high.”

"Take it to Scott," Derek orders. "Call me as soon as he’s signed it, I’ll come pick you up."


	12. Chapter 12

>  "Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?"
> 
>  

"Um." Stiles is stood in the doorway, keys in his hands, gaping at the sight in front of him. The sight that includes a very scantily clad Derek - if you can call a towel around the hips clothing at all - dripping wet and staring at Stiles like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar, except that in this case the cookie jar is Stiles’ house. Or, probably, more likely his shower.

"What," Stiles says, because as enjoyable as seeing Derek shirtless and wet is, it’s not something he expected to come home to.

He quickly looks Derek up and down, checking for injuries, and finds….nothing, which is equal parts relieving and confusing. The only vaguely comprehensible reason for Derek to be standing shirtless and wet in his living room would be that he had to wash off some blood or brain matter or something. But Derek looks surprisingly unruffled, which means Stiles is fresh out of explanations for this bizarre situation.  

Maybe the heat has gotten to him. That could be it - he’s suffering from heatstroke induced hallucinations.

A Fata Morgana in his living room. Who would’ve thought this was possible.

Then again, this is Beacon Hills, so everything is possible. Maybe it’s even witches, or fairies, or

"Stiles?" Derek sounds hesitant, and Stiles snaps back to attention.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"I said," Derek enunciates slowly, "I’m sorry for taking you by surprise like that. I thought you were going to be in class until six."

"Yeah, our professor let us out early because of the heat. Said he couldn’t think straight," Stiles says absentmindedly. His brain is a little stuck on the fact that apparently Derek knows his class schedule by heart. Also, naked skin. So much of it. "….That wasn’t actually an explanation for…all of this, though," Stiles adds, gesturing at Derek.

Derek looks faintly embarrassed. “I don’t have AC at my loft, so I thought I could take a cool shower here and try to cool off a little. I’m pretty hot.”

"Damn straight you are," Stiles says, gaze following the trail of droplets of water running down Derek’s chest, and then jerks his eyes away abruptly, heat rushing to his cheeks. "I mean….uh." He swallows. "Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?" he asks and desperately wills his boner to go down before Derek smells his arousal.

When he chances a glance at Derek, the werewolf is staring at him, expression indecipherable, before his eyes flicker to Stiles’ crotch. “Seriously?”

Fuck. Of course he already knows. Stiles tenses up and resists the urge to cover himself. “Are you honestly trying to blame me now?” he asks. “This is  _your_  fault. You show up here, looking like….this, and you expect me to be unfazed? This kind of thing usually only happens in wet dreams, my body is, like, conditioned to react that way.”

Derek’s eyebrows climb higher and higher, inching towards his hairline. “You have wet dreams about me being wet and half naked in your living room?”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes is, then open is again. “…no?” he hedges. Then he cringes inwardly, because he knows Derek can hear the lie.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t get mauled. Instead, Derek’s look turns pensive and even, dare he say, a little appreciative. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m already feeling hot again, so…I’m gonna go take another shower.” He turns around and saunters off, stopping at the stairs. “You look pretty hot, too,” he adds casually, “maybe you should take one, too. Now.”

Stiles stares at the shape of Derek’s ass that’s visible through the towel as he trudges up the stairs, until the implication of Derek words registers, and he scrambles after Derek, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get up the stairs.

As it turns out, they don’t really cool down in the shower, but it doesn’t really matter. Stiles does have an AC in his room, after all, and that means it’s not too hot for sex in his bed as long as they stay over the sheets.


	13. Chapter 13

> STEREK. THAT'S A GOOD LOOK FOR YOU. ERMEGHED. PLEASE.
> 
>  

Derek stares up at the ceiling until the haze clouding his brain clears and he is able to perceive something other than the electric sparks zinging through his body, making his limbs feel leaden and weightless at the same time.  He doesn’t think he could move if his life depended on it, and the white noise in his ears is still loud enough that he misses the rustling of the sheets, clear indicator of Stiles moving, until a blurry face slides into view.

Derek blinks the fuzziness away as Stiles grins down at him, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks still flushes from the exertion. His eyes are bright and happy, his smile triumphant and smug.

"Hey," Stiles says, voice raspy, and pokes Derek’s temple. "You alive in there?"

Derek  _tries_  to muster up the strength to swat his hand away, but his limbs won’t really obey him so he settles for a weak glare that, in the end, falls just as flat as his snappy retort, because all that comes out when he opens his mouth is a garbled noise that is, frankly, just embarrassing.

Stiles, predictably, dissolves into laughter, but he at least has the courtesy to try and stifle his giggles by burying his face in Derek’s neck. “Man,” he says once he has caught his breath, “I am  _awesome_.”

"If you start gloating about your sexual prowess in the third person again, I’m kicking you out of the bed," Derek mumbles sluggishly. Forming coherent sentences should  _not_  be that difficult.

"Nah, you wouldn’t," Stiles says easily. "I have at least five minutes grace period until you’ve regained enough strength to dump me on the floor."

"I think you’re overestimating your abilities."

"Your face says otherwise."

"Oh really now."

"Uh-huh." Stiles presses a soft kiss to his collarbone. “‘Completely sexed out’ is a good look on you. You should wear it  _all the time_.”

Derek stifles a yawn. “Then you’d complain about me, and I quote, ‘not fucking you into next week often enough’.”

Stiles pouts. “It’s just not fair that I have to decide between one and the other,” he whines.

"Well, unless you don’t go through a very interesting mutation, I doubt you’ll find a way to do both things at the same time." Derek closes his eyes, and only opens them again, squinting, because a lack of response from Stiles is always mildly disturbing. He sighs, because the look on Stiles’ face confirms his worst fears. "Don’t," he says, pointing a warning finger at Stiles, and hey, look at that, his basic motor functions are returning to him.

"It’s  _your_  fault you planted that image in my head,” Stiles squawks. “Can’t. get. it. out.”

Derek groans. “Just go to sleep, Stiles, and I promise I’ll fuck you as soon as we wake up.”

"But I’m not tired," Stiles says, sitting up and bouncing on the mattress a little just because it always pisses Derek off and he’s a little shit. "It’s not my fault you’re an old man who needs a break."

Derek narrows his eyes. “If you’re planning on making a jab at my stamina, let me remind you of that time you and your oh so youthful and endless energy failed when -“

"Yeah, okay, point taken," Stiles interrupts him hastily. Derek smirks. "Rude."

Derek throws one arm around Stiles waist and pulls him down until he’s lying flush against his side so he can tangle their legs together and nuzzle his face against Stiles’ shoulder. “Wake me up in ten minutes,” he says, already surrendering to the tiredness, “and I’ll show you stamina.”

He feels Stiles’ lips ghosting over his temple as he slowly drifts off. “I’m looking forward to that.”


	14. Chapter 14

> But basically it was about the male protag being some beast who the village scarified things to (animals, people whatever) so that the beast doesn’t come down and slaughter the village and the daughter is walking home and gets attacked and the beast guy saves her, and then there is growing forbidden love between them.

 

It’s an indication of how fucked up Stiles’ life is on a regular basis that, when he thinks a situation couldn’t get any worse and then it does, he’s not even surprised. Because of course it does. That’s just the way his life works.

He just wishes he’d have had developed some sort of inurement, a form of emotional resistance by now that would keep him from freaking out when his life went inevitably down the drain.  As it is, he’s collapsed on the ground, ass hurting from his harsh connection with the hard floor, back against a tree as he hyperventilates until his lungs feel like they’re going to explode and desperately tries to make himself as small and invisible as possible. ‘Cause, you know, pressing himself against a tree like you’re trying to melt into it and become one with it will totally fool the beast into believing he’s not there anymore.

Needless to say, it doesn’t work very well. The screams of the last of the bandits that had originally attacked him is abruptly cut off as the  beast swipes his claws across his throat; Stiles flinches at the spray of blood hitting the beast’s face and painting the moss a violent red colour.

He’s next, that’s for sure. And it’s his own fault, really. He should’ve known better than to step foot onto the beast’s territory. No one ever does, except for the yearly tributes the village sends to appease the beast, a deal made years ago to keep it from destroying the village. Stiles just hadn’t paid attention to where he was going, roaming too deeply into the woods, and when the bandits had attacked, cutting off his way back to Beacon Hills…he had run the other way, not caring that he would be encroaching on the beast’s territory, more occupied with the current threat than with the possible consequences of violating an unwritten law.

The beast rises to its feet and straightens before turning towards Stiles.

He’s going to die. He’s going to get eaten by a huge, terrifying man-wolf-creature, and his dad won’t even learn of his fate, because there will be nothing left of Stiles but his bones; if those will be left at all. For all he knows, the beast might use them as toothpicks after he’s finished gnawing Stiles’ flesh off them.

“I’m not going to eat you.” The voice is surprisingly soft and gentle, and also filled with incredulity. Like Stiles’ notion of how a wild beast would behave is the most ridiculous and unfathomable  thing ever, and not, you know, the fact that the beast is now crouching down in front of Stiles, its features shifting and rippling until morphing into the face of a handsome young man, its fangs and claws receding, eyes losing its searing red colour.

If it weren’t for the blood on his face and the slightly wild look in his eyes, Stiles thinks he could have easily passed for a normal villager. Which he isn’t. Because, you know, he looked like a monster a minute ago, and that was not an hallucination. He thinks.

No one ever told him the beast could turn into a man. That it was at least partly human.

“Are you alright?” the man - beast? which one is it? - asks, concerned.

Stiles flinches back when he reaches out to touch his hand to Stiles’ shoulder, and the man drops his hand instantly, sits back on his heels to give Stiles a bit of space, ducks his head a little like he’s trying to seem unthreatening. As if that was even possible. Stiles has just watched him tear five men’s throats out with little effort and quite a bit of brutal enthusiasm.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, voice low and steady. Stiles wants to believe him, but he doesn’t.

“Why would I trust you?” he questions. “You just murdered these men without a second thought.”

“They were going to hurt you,” the man says, as if that’s any explanation.

“Why would you care?” Stiles challenges. “Are you the only one who gets to hurt people on these lands?”

The man’s lips quirk upward in amusement. “Something like that.”

“So it is your land. My eyes didn’t play a trick on me. You’re the beast.” He doesn’t add ‘the one oppressing these lands, forcing my village to sacrifice our children’. He does not think it would bode well for him to mouth off more.

“My name,” the man says, annoyed, “is Derek.”

“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t know why he’s still taken aback by the idea that the man...beast...whatever, has a name. After all, he’s already proven to look like a man - occasionally, at least - and speak like a man and to even….be protective? Stiles isn’t entirely sure what is happening, but he thinks Derek might have implied that he was protecting Stiles.

None of this makes much sense to him at the moment. He doesn’t think he can figure it out until his thoughts stops spinning, but his brain still works well enough to remember his manners even after receiving a blow to his head.

“I’m Stiles.”

Derek’s smile is almost blinding, despite the blood and viscera he’s covered in. “Allow me to accompany you on your way back to the border.” He holds out a hand, slowly.

Stiles takes it. 


End file.
